hissed. ‘Oh, yes. Beware, Geralt. Don’t think that when the time comes and you don’t show good sense, I’ll protect you.’
‘Never fear,’ he smiled. ‘We–and I mean witchers and servile golems–always act sensibly. Since the limits within which we operate are clearly and explicitly demarcated.’
‘Well, I never,’ Yennefer said, looking at him, still pale. ‘You’re taking umbrage like a tart whose lack of chastity has been pointed out to her. You’re a witcher, you can’t change that. Your vocation…’
‘That’s enough about vocations, Yen, because it’s beginning to make me queasy.’
‘I told you not to call me that. And I’m not especially bothered about your queasiness. Nor any other reactions in your limited witcher’s range of reactions.’
‘Nevertheless, you’ll see some of them if you don’t stop plying me with tales about lofty missions and the fight between good and evil. And about dragons; the dreadful enemies of the human tribe. I know better.’
‘Oh, yes?’ The sorceress narrowed her eyes. ‘And what do you know, Witcher?’
‘Only,’ Geralt said, ignoring the sudden warning vibration of the medallion around his neck, ‘that if dragons didn’t have treasure hoards, not a soul would be interested in them; and certainly not sorcerers. Isn’t it interesting that whenever a dragon is being hunted, some sorcerer closely linked to the Goldsmiths’ Guild is always hanging around. Just like you. And later, although a deal of gemstones ought to end up on the market, it never happens and their price doesn’t go down. So don’t talk to me about vocation and the fight for the survival of the race. I know you too well, have known you too long.’
‘Too long,’ she repeated, sneering malevolently. ‘Unfortunately. But don’t think you know me well, you whore’s son. Dammit, how stupid I’ve been… Oh, go to hell! I can’t stand the sight of you!’
She screamed, yanked her horse’s reins and galloped fiercely ahead. The Witcher reined back his mount, and let through the wagon of dwarves, yelling, cursing and whistling through bone pipes. Among them, sprawled on some sacks of oats, lay Dandelion, plucking his lute.
‘Hey!’ roared Yarpen Zigrin, who was sitting on the box, pointing at Yennefer. ‘There’s something black on the trail! I wonder what it is? It looks like a nag!’
‘Without doubt!’ Dandelion shouted, shoving his plum bonnet back, ‘It’s a nag! Riding a gelding! Astounding!’
The beards of Yarpen’s boys shook in general laughter. Yennefer pretended not to hear.
Geralt reined back his horse again and let Niedamir’s mounted bowmen through. Borch was riding slowly some distance beyond them, and the Zerrikanians brought up the rear just behind him. Geralt waited for them to catch up and led his mare alongside Borch’s horse. They rode on in silence.
‘Witcher,’ Three Jackdaws suddenly said, ‘I want to ask you a question.’
‘Ask it.’
‘Why don’t you turn back?’
The Witcher looked at him in silence for a moment.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Three Jackdaws said, turning his face towards Geralt.
‘I’m riding with them because I’m a servile golem. Because I’m a wisp of oakum blown by the wind along the highway. Tell me, where should I go? And for what? At least here some people have gathered with whom I have something to talk about. People who don’t break off their conversations when I approach. People who, though they may not like me, say it to my face, and don’t throw stones from behind a fence. I’m riding with them for the same reason I rode with you to the log drivers’ inn. Because it’s all the same to me. I don’t have a goal to head towards. I don’t have a destination at the end of the road.’
Three Jackdaws cleared his throat.
‘There’s a destination at the end of every road. Everybody has one. Even you, although you like to think you’re somehow
‘Never fear,’ he smiled. ‘We–and I mean witchers and servile golems–always act sensibly. Since the limits within which we operate are clearly and explicitly demarcated.’
‘Well, I never,’ Yennefer said, looking at him, still pale. ‘You’re taking umbrage like a tart whose lack of chastity has been pointed out to her. You’re a witcher, you can’t change that. Your vocation…’
‘That’s enough about vocations, Yen, because it’s beginning to make me queasy.’
‘I told you not to call me that. And I’m not especially bothered about your queasiness. Nor any other reactions in your limited witcher’s range of reactions.’
‘Nevertheless, you’ll see some of them if you don’t stop plying me with tales about lofty missions and the fight between good and evil. And about dragons; the dreadful enemies of the human tribe. I know better.’
‘Oh, yes?’ The sorceress narrowed her eyes. ‘And what do you know, Witcher?’
‘Only,’ Geralt said, ignoring the sudden warning vibration of the medallion around his neck, ‘that if dragons didn’t have treasure hoards, not a soul would be interested in them; and certainly not sorcerers. Isn’t it interesting that whenever a dragon is being hunted, some sorcerer closely linked to the Goldsmiths’ Guild is always hanging around. Just like you. And later, although a deal of gemstones ought to end up on the market, it never happens and their price doesn’t go down. So don’t talk to me about vocation and the fight for the survival of the race. I know you too well, have known you too long.’
‘Too long,’ she repeated, sneering malevolently. ‘Unfortunately. But don’t think you know me well, you whore’s son. Dammit, how stupid I’ve been… Oh, go to hell! I can’t stand the sight of you!’
She screamed, yanked her horse’s reins and galloped fiercely ahead. The Witcher reined back his mount, and let through the wagon of dwarves, yelling, cursing and whistling through bone pipes. Among them, sprawled on some sacks of oats, lay Dandelion, plucking his lute.
‘Hey!’ roared Yarpen Zigrin, who was sitting on the box, pointing at Yennefer. ‘There’s something black on the trail! I wonder what it is? It looks like a nag!’
‘Without doubt!’ Dandelion shouted, shoving his plum bonnet back, ‘It’s a nag! Riding a gelding! Astounding!’
The beards of Yarpen’s boys shook in general laughter. Yennefer pretended not to hear.
Geralt reined back his horse again and let Niedamir’s mounted bowmen through. Borch was riding slowly some distance beyond them, and the Zerrikanians brought up the rear just behind him. Geralt waited for them to catch up and led his mare alongside Borch’s horse. They rode on in silence.
‘Witcher,’ Three Jackdaws suddenly said, ‘I want to ask you a question.’
‘Ask it.’
‘Why don’t you turn back?’
The Witcher looked at him in silence for a moment.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Three Jackdaws said, turning his face towards Geralt.
‘I’m riding with them because I’m a servile golem. Because I’m a wisp of oakum blown by the wind along the highway. Tell me, where should I go? And for what? At least here some people have gathered with whom I have something to talk about. People who don’t break off their conversations when I approach. People who, though they may not like me, say it to my face, and don’t throw stones from behind a fence. I’m riding with them for the same reason I rode with you to the log drivers’ inn. Because it’s all the same to me. I don’t have a goal to head towards. I don’t have a destination at the end of the road.’
Three Jackdaws cleared his throat.
‘There’s a destination at the end of every road. Everybody has one. Even you, although you like to think you’re somehow
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